Emma Lazarus - "The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Vol.II, Jewish Poems: Translations"

Aristotle - "Ethics"

William Wordsworth - "Lyrical Ballads, With Other Poems, 1800, Vol. I."

Isabella Lucy Bird - "The Englishwoman in America"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Two Admirals

J >> J. Fenimore Cooper >> The Two Admirals




Like a true woman, Mildred found her happiness with her husband and
children. Of the latter she had but three; a boy and two girls. The care
of the last was early committed to Mrs. Dutton. This excellent woman had
remained at Wychecombe with her husband, until death put an end to his
vices, though the close of his career was exempt from those scenes of
brutal dictation and interference that had rendered the earlier part of
her life so miserable. Apprehension of what might be the consequences to
himself, acted as a check, and he had sagacity enough to see that the
physical comforts he now possessed were all owing to the influence of
his wife. He lived but four years, however. On his death, his widow
immediately took her departure for America.

It would be substituting pure images of the fancy for a picture of sober
realities, were we to say that Lady Wychecombe and her adopted mother
never regretted the land of _their_ birth. This negation of feeling,
habits, and prejudices, is not to be expected even in an Esquimaux. They
both had occasional strictures to make on the _climate_, (and this to
Wycherly's great surprise, for _he_ conscientiously believed that of
England to be just the worst in the world,) on the fruits, the servants,
the roads, and the difficulty of procuring various little comforts. But,
as this was said good-naturedly and in pleasantry, rather than in the
way of complaint, it led to no unpleasant scenes or feelings. As all
three made occasional voyages to England, where his estates, and more
particularly settlements with his factor, compelled the baronet to go
once in about a lustrum, the fruits and the climate were finally given
up by the ladies. After many years, even the slip-shod, careless, but
hearty attendance of the negroes, came to be preferred to the dogged
mannerism of the English domestics, perfect as were the latter in their
parts; and the whole subject got to be one of amusement, instead of one
of complaint. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the
traveller who passes _once_ through a country, with his home-bred, and
quite likely _provincial_ notions thick upon him, is competent to
describe, with due discrimination, even the usages of which he is
actually a witness. This truth all the family came, in time, to
discover; and while it rendered them more strictly critical in their
remarks, it also rendered them more tolerant. As it was, few happier
families were to be found in the British empire, than that of Sir
Wycherly Wychecombe; its head retaining his manly and protecting
affection for all dependent on him, while his wife, beautiful as a
matron, as she had been lovely as a girl, clung to him with the tenacity
of the vine to its own oak.

Of the result of the rising in the north, it is unnecessary to say much.
The history of the _Chevalier's_ successes in the first year, and of his
final overthrow at Culloden, is well known. Sir Reginald Wychecombe,
like hundreds of others, played his cards so skilfully that he avoided
committing himself; and, although he lived and eventually died a
suspected man, he escaped forfeitures and attainder. With Sir Wycherly,
as the head of his house, he maintained a friendly correspondence to the
last, even taking charge of the paternal estate in its owner's absence;
manifesting to the hour of his death, a scrupulous probity in matters of
money, mingled with an inherent love of management and intrigue, in
things that related to politics and the succession. Sir Reginald lived
long enough to see the hopes of the Jacobites completely extinguished,
and the throne filled by a native Englishman.

Many long years after the events which rendered the week of its opening
incidents so memorable among its actors, must now be imagined. Time had
advanced with its usual unfaltering tread, and the greater part of a
generation had been gathered to their fathers. George III. had been on
the throne not less than three lustrums, and most of the important
actors of the period of '45, were dead;--many of them, in a degree,
forgotten. But each age has its own events and its own changes. Those
colonies, which in 1745 were so loyal, so devoted to the house of
Hanover, in the belief that political and religious liberty depended on
the issue, had revolted against the supremacy of the parliament of the
empire. America was already in arms against the mother country, and the
very day before the occurrence of the little scene we are about to
relate, the intelligence of the battle of Bunker Hill had reached
London. Although the gazette and national pride had, in a degree,
lessened the characteristics of this most remarkable of all similar
combats, by exaggerating the numbers of the colonists engaged, and
lessening the loss of the royal troops, the impression produced by the
news is said to have been greater than any known to that age. It had
been the prevalent opinion of England--an opinion that was then general
in Europe, and which descended even to our own times--that the animals
of the new continent, man included, had less courage and physical force,
than those of the old; and astonishment, mingled with the forebodings of
the intelligent, when it was found that a body of ill-armed countrymen
had dared to meet, in a singularly bloody combat, twice their number of
regular troops, and that, too, under the guns of the king's shipping and
batteries. Rumours, for the moment, were rife in London, and the
political world was filled with gloomy anticipations of the future.

On the morning of the day alluded to, Westminster Abbey, as usual, was
open to the inspection of the curious and interested. Several parties
were scattered among its aisles and chapels, some reading the
inscriptions on the simple tablets of the dead which illustrate a
nation, in illustrating themselves; others listening to the names of
princes who derived their consequence from their thrones and alliances;
and still other sets, who were wandering among the more elaborate
memorials that have been raised equally to illustrate insignificance,
and to mark the final resting-places of more modern heroes and
statesmen. The beauty of the weather had brought out more visiters than
common, and not less than half-a-dozen equipages were in waiting, in and
about Palace Yard. Among others, one had a ducal coronet. This carriage
did not fail to attract the attention that is more than usually bestowed
on rank, in England. All were empty, however, and more than one party of
pedestrians entered the venerable edifice, rejoicing that the view of a
duke or a duchess, was to be thrown in, among the other sights,
gratuitously. All who passed on foot, however, were not influenced by
this vulgar feeling; for, one group went by, that did not even cast a
glance at the collection of carriages; the seniors of the party being
too much accustomed to such things to lend them a thought, and the
juniors too full of anticipations of what they were about to see, to
think of other matters. This party consisted of a handsome man of
fifty-odd, a lady some three or four years his junior well preserved and
still exceedingly attractive; a young man of twenty-six, and two lovely
girls, that looked like twins; though one was really twenty-one, and the
other but nineteen. These were Sir Wycherly and Lady Wychecombe,
Wycherly their only son, then just returned from a five years'
peregrination on the continent of Europe, and Mildred and Agnes, their
daughters. The rest of the family had arrived in England about a
fortnight before, to greet the heir on his return from the _grand tour_,
as it was then termed. The meeting had been one of love, though Lady
Wychecombe had to reprove a few innocent foreign affectations, as she
fancied them to be, in her son; and the baronet, himself, laughed at the
scraps of French, Italian, and German, that quite naturally mingled in
the young man's discourse. All this, however, cast no cloud over the
party, for it had ever been a family of entire confidence and unbroken
love.

"This is a most solemn place to me," observed Sir Wycherly, as they
entered at the Poets' corner, "and one in which a common man unavoidably
feels his own insignificance. But, we will first make our pilgrimage,
and look at these remarkable inscriptions as we come out. The tomb we
seek is in a chapel on the other side of the church, near to the great
doors. When I last saw it, it was quite alone."

On hearing this, the whole party moved on; though the two lovely young
Virginians cast wistful and curious eyes behind them, at the wonders by
which they were surrounded.

"Is not this an extraordinary edifice, Wycherly?" half whispered Agnes,
the youngest of the sisters, as she clung to one arm of her brother,
Mildred occupying the other. "Can the whole world furnish such another?"

"So much for hominy and James' river!" answered the young man,
laughing--"now could you but see the pile at Rouen, or that at Rheims,
or that at Antwerp, or even that at York, in this good kingdom, old
Westminster would have to fall back upon its little tablets and big
names. But Sir Wycherly stops; he must see what he calls his land-fall."

Sir Wycherly had indeed stopped. It was in consequence of having reached
the head of the _ch[oe]ur_, whence he could see the interior of the
recess, or chapel, towards which he had been moving. It still contained
but a single monument, and that was adorned with an anchor and other
nautical emblems. Even at that distance, the words "RICHARD
BLUEWATER, REAR-ADMIRAL OF THE WHITE," might be read. But the
baronet had come to a sudden halt, in consequence of seeing a party of
three enter the chapel, in which he wished to be alone with his own
family. The party consisted of an old man, who walked with tottering
steps, and this so much the more from the circumstance that he leaned on
a domestic nearly as old as himself, though of a somewhat sturdier
frame, and of a tall imposing-looking person of middle age, who followed
the two with patient steps. Several attendants of the cathedral watched
this party from a distance with an air of curiosity and respect; but
they had been requested not to accompany it to the chapel.

"They must be some old brother-officers of my poor uncle's, visiting his
tomb!" whispered Lady Wychecombe. "The very venerable gentleman has
naval emblems about his attire."

"_Do_ you--_can_ you forget him, love? 'Tis Sir Gervaise Oakes, the
pride of England! yet how changed! It is now five-and-twenty years since
we last met; still I knew him at a glance. The servant is old Galleygo,
his steward; but the gentleman with him is a stranger. Let us advance;
_we_ cannot be intruders in such a place."

Sir Gervaise paid no attention to the entrance of the Wychecombes. It
was evident, by the vacant look of his countenance, that time and hard
service had impaired his faculties, though his body remained entire; an
unusual thing for one who had been so often engaged. Still there were
glimmerings of lively recollections, and even of strong sensibilities
about his eyes, as sudden fancies crossed his mind. Once a year, the
anniversary of his friend's interment, he visited that chapel; and he
had now been brought here as much from habit, as by his own desire. A
chair was provided for him, and he sat facing the tomb, with the large
letters before his eyes. He regarded neither, though he bowed
courteously to the salute of the strangers. His companion at first
seemed a little surprised, if not offended at the intrusion; but when
Wycherly mentioned that they were relatives of the deceased, he also
bowed complacently, and made way for the ladies.

"This it is as what you wants to see, Sir Jarvy," observed Galleygo,
jogging his master's shoulder by way of jogging his memory. "Them 'ere
cables and hanchors, and that 'ere mizzen-mast, with a rear-admiral's
flag a-flying, is rigged in this old church, in honour of our friend
Admiral Blue, as was; but as is now dead and gone this many a long
year."

"Admiral of the Blue," repeated Sir Gervaise coldly. "You're mistaken,
Galleygo, I'm an admiral of the white, and admiral of the fleet in the
bargain. I know my own rank, sir."

"I knows that as well as you does yourself, Sir Jarvy," answered
Galleygo, whose grammar had rather become confirmed than improved, by
time, "or as well as the First Lord himself. But Admiral Blue was once
your best friend, and I doesn't at all admire at your forgetting
him--one of these long nights you'll be forgetting _me_."

"I beg your pardon, Galleygo; I rather think not. I remember _you_, when
a very young man."

"Well, and so you mought remember Admiral Blue, if you'd just try. I
know'd ye both when young luffs, myself."

"This is a painful scene," observed the stranger to Sir Wycherly, with a
melancholy smile. "This gentleman is now at the tomb of his dearest
friend; and yet, as you see, he appears to have lost all recollection
that such a person ever existed. For what do we live, if a few brief
years are to render our memories such vacant spots!"

"Has he been long in this way?" asked Lady Wychecombe, with interest.

The stranger started at the sound of her voice. He looked intently into
the face of the still fair speaker, before he answered; then he bowed,
and replied--

"He has been failing these five years, though his last visit here was
much less painful than this. But are our own memories perfect?--Surely,
I have seen that face before!--These young ladies, too--"

"Geoffrey--_dear_ cousin Geoffrey!" exclaimed Lady Wychecombe, holding
out both her hands. "It is--it must be the Duke of Glamorgan, Wycherly!"

No further explanations were needed. All the parties recognised each
other in an instant. They had not met for many--many years, and each had
passed the period of life when the greatest change occurs in the
physical appearance; but, now that the ice was broken, a flood of
recollections poured in. The duke, or Geoffrey Cleveland, as we prefer
to call him, kissed his cousin and her daughters with frank affection,
for no change of condition had altered his simple sea-habits, and he
shook hands with the gentlemen, with a cordiality like that of old
times. All this, however, was unheeded by Sir Gervaise, who sat looking
at the monument, in a dull apathy.

"Galleygo," he said; but Galleygo had placed himself before Sir
Wycherly, and thrust out a hand that looked like a bunch of knuckles.

"I knows ye!" exclaimed the steward, with a grin. "I know'd ye in the
offing yonder, but I couldn't make out your number. Lord, sir, if this
doesn't brighten Sir Jarvy up, again, and put him in mind of old times,
I shall begin to think we have run out cable to the better end."

"I will speak to him, duke, if you think it advisable?" said Sir
Wycherly, in an inquiring manner.

"Galleygo," put in Sir Gervaise, "what lubber fitted that cable?--he has
turned in the clench the wrong way."

"Ay--ay, sir, they _is_ great lubbers, them stone-cutters, Sir Jarvy;
and they knows about as much of ships, as ships knows of them. But here
is _young_ Sir Wycherly Wychecombe come to see you--the _old_ 'un's
nevy."

"Sir Wycherly, you are a very welcome guest. Bowldero is a poor place
for a gentleman of your merit; but such as it is, it is entirely at your
service. What did you say the gentleman's name was, Galleygo?"

"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the _young_ 'un--the _old_ 'un slipped the
night as we moored in his house."

"I hope, Sir Gervaise, I have not entirely passed from your
recollection; it would grieve me sadly to think so. And my poor uncle,
too; he who died of apoplexy in your presence!"

"_Nullus, nulla, nullum._ That's good Latin, hey! Duke? _Nullius,
nullius, nullius._ My memory _is_ excellent, gentlemen; nominative,
_penna_; genitive, _pennae_, and so on."

"Now, Sir Jarvy, since you're veering out your Latin, _I_ should likes
to know if you can tell a 'clove-hitch' from a 'carrick-bend?'"

"That is an extraordinary question, Galleygo, to put to an old seaman!"

"Well, if you remembers _that_, why can't you just as reasonably
remember your old friend, Admiral Blue?"

"Admiral of the blue! I do recollect _many_ admirals of the blue. They
ought to make me an admiral of the blue, duke; I've been a rear-admiral
long enough."

"You've _been_ an admiral of the blue _once_; and that's enough for any
man," interrupted Galleygo, again in his positive manner; "and it isn't
five minutes since you know'd your own rank as well as the Secretary to
the Admiralty himself. He veers and hauls, in this fashion, on an idee,
gentlemen, until he doesn't know one end of it from t'other."

"This is not uncommon with men of great age," observed the duke. "They
sometimes remember the things of their youth, while the whole of later
life is a blank. I have remarked this with our venerable friend, in
whose mind I think it will not be difficult, however, to revive the
recollection of Admiral Bluewater, and even of yourself, Sir Wycherly.
Let _me_ make the effort, Galleygo."

"Yes, Lord Geoffrey," for so the steward always called the quondam
reefer, "you does handle him more like a quick-working boat, than any on
us; and so I'll take an hopportunity of just overhauling our old
lieutenant's young 'uns, and of seeing what sort of craft he has set
afloat for the next generation."

"Sir Gervaise," said the Duke, leaning over the chair, "here is Sir
Wycherly Wychecombe, who once served a short time with us as a
lieutenant; it was when you were in the Plantagenet. You remember the
Plantagenet, I trust, my dear sir?"

"The Plantagenets? Certainly, duke; I read all about them when a boy.
Edwards, and Henrys, and _Richards_--" at the last name he stopped; the
muscles of his face twitched; memory had touched a sensitive chord. But
it was too faintly, to produce more than a pause.

"There, now," growled Galleygo, in Agnes' face, he being just then
employed in surveying her through a pair of silver spectacles that were
a present from his master, "you see, he has forgotten the old Planter;
and the next thing, he'll forget to eat his dinner. It's _wicked_, Sir
Jarvy, to forget _such_ a ship."

"I trust, at least, you have not forgotten Richard Bluewater?" continued
the Duke, "he who fell in our last action with the Comte de Vervillin?"

A gleam of intelligence shot into the rigid and wrinkled face; the eye
lighted, and a painful smile struggled around the lips.

"What, _Dick_!" he exclaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which he
had previously spoken. "_Dick!_ hey! duke? _good, excellent Dick?_ We
were midshipmen together, my lord duke; and I loved him like a brother!"

"I _knew_ you did! and I dare say now you can recollect the melancholy
occasion of his death?"

"Is Dick _dead_?" asked the admiral, with a vacant gaze.

"Lord--Lord, Sir Jarvy, you knows he is, and that 'ere marvel
constructure is his monerment--now you _must_ remember the old Planter,
and the County of Fairvillian, and the threshing we guv'd him?"

"Pardon me, Galleygo; there is no occasion for warmth. When I was a
midshipman, warmth of expression was disapproved of by all the elder
officers."

"You cause me to lose ground," said the Duke, looking at the steward by
way of bidding him be silent: "is it not extraordinary, Sir Wycherly,
how his mind reverts to his youth, overlooking the scenes of latter
life! Yes, _Dick is_ dead, Sir Gervaise. He fell in that battle in which
you were doubled on by the French--when you had le Foudroyant on one
side of you, and le Pluton on the other--"

"_I remember it!_" interrupted Sir Gervaise, in a clear strong voice,
his eye flashing with something like the fire of youth--"I remember it!
Le Foudroyant was on our starboard beam; le Pluton a little on our
larboard bow--Bunting had gone aloft to look out for Bluewater--no--poor
Bunting was killed--"

"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, who afterwards married Mildred Bluewater,
Dick's niece," put in the baronet, himself, almost as eager as the
admiral had now become; "Sir Wycherly Wychecombe _had_ been aloft, but
was returned to report the Pluton coming down!"

"So he did!--God bless him! A clever youth, and he _did_ marry Dick's
niece. God bless them _both_. Well, sir, you're a stranger, but the
story will interest you. There we lay, almost smothered in the smoke,
with one two-decker at work on our starboard beam, and another hammering
away on the larboard bow, with our top-masts over the side, and the guns
firing through the wreck."

"Ay, now you're getting it like a book!" exclaimed Galleygo exultingly,
flourishing his stick, and strutting about the little chapel; "that's
just the way things was, as I knows from seeing 'em!"

"I'm quite certain I'm right, Galleygo?"

"Right! your honour's righter than any log-book in the fleet. Give it to
'em, Sir Jarvy, larboard and starboard!"

"That we did--that we did"--continued the old man earnestly, becoming
even grand in aspect, as he rose, always gentleman-like and graceful,
but filled with native fire, "that did we! de Vervillin was on our
right, and des Prez on our left--the smoke was choking us
all--Bunting--no; young Wychecombe was at my side; he said a fresh
Frenchman was shoving in between us and le Pluton, sir--God forbid! I
_thought_; for we had enough of them, us it was. There she comes! See,
here is her flying-jib-boom-end--and there--hey! Wychecombe?--_That's_
the _old Roman_, shoving through the smoke!--Caesar himself! and there
stands Dick and young Geoffrey Cleveland--_he_ was of your family,
duke--there stands Dick Bluewater, between the knight-heads, waving his
hat--_HURRAH!_--He's true, at last!--He's true, at last--_HURRAH!
HURRAH!_"

The clarion tones rose like a trumpet's blast, and the cheering of the
old sailor rang in the arches of the Abbey Church, causing all within
hearing to start, as if a voice spoke from the tombs. Sir Gervaise,
himself, seemed surprised; he looked up at the vaulted roof, with a gaze
half-bewildered, half-delighted.

"Is this Bowldero, or Glamorgan House, my Lord Duke," he asked, in a
whisper.

"It is neither, Admiral Oakes, but Westminster Abbey; and this is the
tomb of your friend, rear-admiral Richard Bluewater."

"Galleygo, help me to kneel," the old man added in the manner of a
corrected school-boy. "The stoutest of us all, should kneel to God, in
his own temple. I beg pardon, gentlemen; I wish to pray."

The Duke of Glamorgan and Sir Wycherly Wychecombe helped the admiral to
his knees, and Galleygo, as was his practice, knelt beside his master,
who bowed his head on his man's shoulders. This touching spectacle
brought all the others into the same humble attitude. Wycherly, Mildred,
and their children, with the noble, kneeling and praying in company. One
by one, the latter arose; still Galleygo and his master continued on the
pavement. At length Geoffrey Cleveland stepped forward, and raised the
old man, placing him, with Wycherly's assistance, in the chair. Here he
sat, with a calm smile on his aged features, his open eyes riveted
seemingly on the name of his friend, perfectly dead. There had been a
reaction, which suddenly stopped the current of life, at the heart.

Thus expired Sir Gervaise Oakes, full of years and of honours; one of
the bravest and most successful of England's sea-captains. He had lived
his time, and supplied an instance of the insufficiency of worldly
success to complete the destiny of man; having, in a degree, survived
his faculties, and the consciousness of all he had done, and all he
merited. As a small offset to this failing of nature, he had regained a
glimmering view of one of the most striking scenes, and of much the most
enduring sentiment, of a long life, which God, in mercy, permitted to be
terminated in the act of humble submission to his own greatness and
glory.

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